Threshold
by enigma939
Summary: At the dawn of the Cold War, James Bond is asked to make a decision that will shape his destiny for years to come. One shot. Prequel to Ian Fleming's Bond novels.


**Threshold**

**A/N: **This little one-shot is set immediately after the end of the Second World War and depicts the beginning of Bond's legendary career in the British Secret Service. This fic is based on the literary version of James Bond from Ian Fleming's novels and _not _the cinematic version of the character. I have also made direct references to events mentioned in the _Casino Royale _novel.

It was the Autumn of 1945. A war had ended and across the world, people were unanimous in their celebrations. And one man was celebrating the end of the war in his own solitary way, in a small bar somewhere in the middle of London.

James Bond had had a good war. Or at least as good a war as it was possible for war to ever be 'good'. He had served his country and her allies with true dedication and skill. He had satisfied his superiors in the diligent discharge of his duties. And as a measure of that satisfaction, he had risen to the rank of Commander.

And now what, thought Bond, as he sipped his Double Bourbon. Over the years, he had forged himself into a man of war. He had thrived in the fields of battle, both overt and covert. And now that the war was over, the leaders of the world were discussing reconstruction. But what could _he_ do? It wasn't his job to reconstruct. It was his job to fight! But there was no real reason to fight left. Not anymore. The Royal Navy, like other branches of the military, was redundant in times of peace. And so were its officers.

Bond was silently and somewhat uselessly trying to contemplate the future. He lit one of his Chesterfields and within moments, was literally drowned in cigarette smoking. So absorbed was he in his vague thoughts, that he barely noticed the tall well-dressed man who slid into the seat in front of the bar besides him. The stranger ordered a Double Bourbon as well. When it arrived he started sipping his drink slowly and kept trying, for some reason, to catch Bond's eye.

This had not escaped Bond's sense. His Naval Intelligence training had taught him to constantly be on the alert, even in the most peaceful of surroundings, and old habits certainly died hard. So Bond stared back at the stranger quietly. He observed the man appraisingly. The man was slightly taller than Bond, had light brown hair, pale skin and was dressed in an expensive looking dark brown suit.

Finally, after a few moments, the man cleared his throat and spoke in a polite tone, "Commander Bond, I presume?"

Bond was a bit taken aback by this, but he forced a brief smile on his face and replied, "Yes. And you are…?"

"Oh, forgive me for not introducing myself. My name is Waters. Donald Waters from the Foreign Office", the stranger said, extending his hand, which Bond accepted.

"It seems we have some mutual acquaintances and I-uh, have been asked to catch up with you from their side, uh…if you don't mind".

"Certainly", Bond said. "But I think its best that we do our talking someplace more comfortable. A private booth, shall we say?"

"I'll arrange it", said Waters, raising a hand to call for the bartender.

Bond initial suspicions about the man, which had surfaced when he mentioned the phrase 'Foreign Office', were intensified by his rather abrupt invitation to a private conversation and were confirmed altogether when, barely a moment after they had been seated in their private booth, Waters declared, "Commander Bond, I think its best if I come straight to the point. I am a representative of the SIS". He paused to light a cigarette and added, "You do remember the SIS, don't you?"

Bond's face darkened a little. The Secret Intelligence Service was largely a rumor for most people, a little more than a myth, but he of all people knew it was very much real. He had worked for the Service once, briefly, during the war, and it was not an experience he was likely to forget in a hurry.

It was around a year and a half ago. The Secret Service had contacted the Naval Intelligence outpost in the Atlantic where Bond, then a lieutenant, was stationed at the time. An undercover agent of theirs in Japan had uncovered an operation being carried out by the Japanese SIS wherein information about the movements of the British and American fleets in the Atlantic was being clandestinely provided to the Japanese High Command by an agent somewhere in the United States. The British agent who had discovered this was subsequently captured and tortured to death, but his successors on the assignment probed deeper, albeit with greater caution, and had discovered that it was a Japanese cipher clerk in the States who had purchased the data from an information broker, who was the Japanese High Command's source. The SIS had decided to mount an operation against the clerk. However, as the Japanese were already aware of prior penetration by the Secret Service into this operation, the Service could not risk using any of their known agents who were available in the area for fear that the Japanese would get the 'wind up' and wind up their operation as a result, before the Service could mete out its 'punishment' and 'teach them a lesson'. This was what had been told to Naval Intelligence, when the SIS put forward their request to temporarily recruit a Naval Intelligence officer for the assignment. Naval Intelligence complied and Bond's commanding officer recommended him for the job. Bond had considered it an honour to be singled out for an important assignment like this. He had always been a bit fascinated by the Secret Service and the stories its covert activities generated, though most of them more fiction than fact, and so he was pleased to have an opportunity to work with them. And thus he was taken to the States and only then was he informed of the true nature of the operation. They weren't planning to capture the cipher clerk and question him. They weren't even planning to expose him in the press and use him for the purpose of anti-Japanese propaganda. They were quite simply planning to kill him. And they had chosen Bond to do the deed.

Bond had been shocked to say the least, at first. He was no stranger to death, or to killing for that matter. He'd seen men die in the field; he'd even killed men in the heat of battle. But this was different. This was to be murder. Cold-blooded murder. He had heard stories of course of _this _aspect of the SIS's work, but he had dismissed them as unsubstantiated rumors.

He could have refused. But he didn't. And he wasn't in the least surprised by this. After all, it _was _an important assignment. Not as much in terms of concrete results as it was in terms of psychological impact. The Japanese needed to be taught a lesson, and the more brutal the lesson, the better. Besides, it had become a matter of reputation for Bond. He needed to live up to the trust and faith the Navy had invested in him. His fellow officers had invested in him. His CO had invested in him. And now, his new colleagues in the Service. He couldn't let his side down. He couldn't let England down. Besides, it was hardly murder when you killed a murderer, was it? And in Bond's eye, this Japanese spy was as much of a murderer as a gunman on the battlefield with a rifle aimed at a target.

The honour of England was at stake and there simply was no time for any inhibitions. He agreed.

For two weeks, he went through basic training, after which he went to New York City. His target was on the 33rd floor of the Rockefeller Centre. Bond took a room in the hotel opposite to the building and had a Remington Rand sniper rifle smuggled up. When the time came, he barely hesitated before he pulled the trigger, hitting the target through the mouth. It was a 'clean kill'…no close contact. Bond didn't even get a clear look at the corpse, and he remembered coldly looking at the photographs later without the slightest remorse. If he felt any, he buried it deep inside, at the back of his mind. The SIS complimented Bond on his aim. For a first-time sniper, he had done a first rate job!

But the job wasn't done. There was still the matter of the information broker who had sold the data on the fleet movements to the Japanese cipher clerk in the first place. A Norwegian double agent living in Stockholm who the SIS agents on the case had discovered made frequent trips across the Atlantic to sell data…for a handsome price of course. The Service had made its decision. And once more, Bond was called to do the deed. His efficiency in the first instance had made them trust him enough to do the second.

Once again, with only the slightest hesitation, Bond agreed and traveled to Stockholm. This job wasn't as easy as the first one. It wasn't to be a 'clean kill'. Bond had to break into the man's apartment and kill him in his sleep. He had a choice between a silenced Beretta and a knife. Bond would have preferred the Beretta, but he knew that the weapon might not be that effective with the silencer, and he could not risk the man somehow surviving from his injuries. There would also not be much time to ascertain whether or not the man was dead. So Bond, with much reluctance, chose the knife. Besides, a knife would make the murder look more like the spur of the moment actions of a common burglar. So he drove up to the man's house apartment at night, broke in, and stabbed him to death in his sleep. The flaw in the plan was that the man simply had too much flab on him and thus the process of killing him wasn't proving to be as easy as Bond had expected. For in his sleep, the man thrashed about and blindly and rather pathetically tried to defend himself. For a moment, the pitiful sight nearly broke Bond's concentration and penetrated through his professional reserve. But he pushed aside his finer feelings and proceeded with the task with the cold detachment of one who was culling a chicken. And at last the deed was done. Bond methodically went around the apartment, stealing a few valuables and large sums of money that had been hidden about in order to give the illusion of a burglary, before he fled the scene.

But the scene still haunted him in nightmares for a whole week after that. Bond often woke up in the middle of the night, panting and sweating, his bedclothes in disarray due to his thrashing about in his sleep. The images of the dying Norwegian thrashing about wildly in his sleep haunted him more than the corpse of the Japanese cipher clerk he'd coldly viewed through a sniper-scope from several hundred yards away. Nevertheless, he coldly and professionally pushed the images and memories into the back of his mind, along with any shred of remorse he might have felt for what he did. These two men were his country's enemies; their actions had helped kill innocent British men, women and children everyday. And now, thanks to the contributions of a certain lieutenant in Navel Intelligence, they would kill no longer…

But at any rate, one thing this experience had taught him was to reject all the romanticized accounts of the Secret Service's exploits. For there was nothing _remotely _romantic about shooting a man through his mouth from a window ledge or stabbing a man in his sleep; nor was there anything romantic about the grisly fate of the British agent who had uncovered this whole mess in the first place.

The SIS had given him the highest praise and commendations for his work and his CO had proudly told him that he had lived up to the prestige of the Royal Navy, but Bond did not view his two 'assignments' as anything special; they were just 'jobs' like any other which he had carried out in the course of the war. He never spoke about his experiences to with any of his colleagues, not even the one's who had been cleared for it and who knew all about it. He rarely thought about it at all, and had certainly not been thinking of it now, until this man Waters had brought the subject of the SIS up. But one think was certain; given his experiences with them, he certainly _had not _forgotten the Secret Service!

"Of course I do", Bond replied solemnly.

"Well, you'll be pleased to know that we certainly remember _you_, Commander Bond. A lot of our people were especially impressed with the work you did. Very impressed indeed", Waters said politely.

Bond paused for a moment while he took another sip from his glass, tipped some of his cigarette ash into the ashtray on the table and added in a somewhat more casual tone than earlier, "I think 'Mr. Bond' or even 'James' will be much better than 'Commander'. The war is over you know".

"It maybe over for the military _Mr. _Bond, but some of us are not so lucky", Waters said.

"What do you mean by that?" Bond asked.

"Our boys and the Americans may have laid those bloody Nazis to rest in D-Day, but we're on our way to a whole new world of trouble soon. We may have put _Heil _Hitler out of commission for good, and the Yanks may have nuked the Japanese out of existence, but we still have the Reds out there to worry about", Waters said dryly.

"The Reds?" Bond asked, puzzled. "Why I would have thought that trouble had more or less ended, since they _did _help us out in the war!"

"Think again, Mr. Bond. They had their reasons for wanting that lunatic with the stupid moustache out of the way. We had ours. So it made sense, logistically, to join forces. But both sides had own views on how to create the bold new world of the post-war 'era of peace'. So there are bound to be…disagreements. Get the picture?"

"I think so", Bond admitted, from behind a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"There's already been trouble over Berlin…God knows what'll happen next. We need to be prepared. And armies or even _navies _for that matter aren't going to do a fat lot of good. It's going to be a 'cold war' and the people who fight it are going to be the men in the cold".

Bond was now getting a vague inkling of the direction in which this impromptu interview was moving. Intrigued, he decided to find out more, if Waters would rise to the occasion of course.

"I'm pretty certain you haven't met me here just to discuss politics!" Bond commented in as casual a tone as he could manage.

"Of course not, Mr. Bond. I leave politics to the chaps in Whitehall. People like me; we just try to save England. And we're offering you a chance to do the same. So what do you think?" Waters asked, with a slight smile on his face.

Bond remained silent for a few moments, before he replied, "But what could you possibly want from me? I'm just a naval reserve man, a low-level intelligence officer. A chocolate sailor at best. What could _I _possibly do to help…professionals…like you?"

"Oh come now, Mr. Bond. You're being a bit too modest here. You're not just any Naval Intelligence man, you're one of the best the Navy ever put out onto the field…or 'out to sea' if you prefer. Where do you think we get our people from? Retired officers of the Indian Army?! Those days are over. These days, we try to get our hands on real professionals who have a lot of potential. People like _you_, Bond. You're a professional alright…even if you haven't realized it yet. I can count on one hand the number of people who can kill a man in cold blood in the line of duty but not lose too much sleep over it, since its just 'part of the job'. And you're one of those men; your post-mission psychiatric reports testify to _that. _You just need a bit of grooming…and we're willing to give you that if you decide to enter the fold", said Waters.

"Our chief, 'M', went through your dossier just the other day. He thinks you have it in you to do some real good in the world, and he'd rarely wrong about anyone. If you sign up, within a year, he's even willing to give you a more…_significant_…post", Waters said, choosing his words cautiously.

Bond remained silent for a few minutes, quietly sipping his drink. When it was over, he signaled to the waiter and asked for another one.

Waters, noticing the man deep in contemplation, added, "Another war is brewing, Mr. Bond, a different more subtle kind of war…and we need our best soldiers on the front-line".

Bond, for his own part, was reflecting on how duty was being forced upon him yet again. But perhaps 'forced' wasn't the right word…it was _his _choice to accept or reject and he had, too date, _always _made the 'right choice'. To Bond, defending Queen and Country was not just duty…it was what he did with his life. Since he was a young lad of seventeen, he had been working tirelessly as an active 'defender of the Faith'. Why should be stop now? Had he not just been contemplating what next? Well, wasn't this intriguing offer Waters was making a good option? Was there anything better? Waters was right. A war _was_ brewing…and the military 'cowboy tactics' of the past simply wouldn't do. What England needed was someone who was more sophisticated…someone who was more _refined_…someone who was, above all, professional…and if he considered all of the above…well, who was he to argue with fate!

But then the images vaguely swam before his eyes…Images of two corpses, one in New York, the other in Stockholm…if he returned to the Secret Service, if he 'entered the fold', then sooner or later, he was bound to do what he done in those two instances again…and again…for the enemies of England would _have _to be taught brutal lessons. He had just about been able to hold up the first two times; would he be able to maintain the cold, emotionally detached professional reserve any further? How much more could his conscience, his soul take…more to the point, how much of James Bond, the man, would remain if he evolved into the perfect machine?!

As these pertinent doubts floated through his mind, another side of him argued that James Bond, the man, had thus far been defined solely by his service to England, and by extension, to the people of the civilized Western world. Wasn't that a reason enough to keep doing what he did for the sake of maintaining his identity, if nothing else?

One thing was crystal clear to Bond. Just as the world was standing on the threshold of a new era, so was he standing on a threshold…and he needed time, to plan, to decide…just as the leaders of the world needed time to heal the wounds inflicted by war while preparing for the next one…

"I need more time", he said plainly.

"Fine. I thought you would say that", Waters said, reaching into his coat pocket for a notepad, on which he scribbled something with a pencil. He tore of the paper and handed it to Bond. Bond memorized the address that was written and hastily burnt the paper with his cigarette lighter.

"Come there sometime by the end of this week, at latest. Head for Universal Exports and ask for the Managing Director. Got that?" Waters explained.

"Yes", replied Bond.

"Well, nice meeting you, Mr. Bond", Waters said, as he extended a hand again, which Bond shook, before he left some money on the table and left the bar.

Waters walked down the street until he reached a telephone booth. He dialed a number which barely a handful of men in London were privileged to have and said, "Yes sir, I spoke to him. I think he'll accept….Yes sir, depend upon it. He'll be in your office by the end of the week".

* * *

In an office on the eight floor of the building overlooking Regent's Park, a middle-aged man in a tweed suit, with a pipe in his mouth, sat at a desk, engrossed, like most high-ranking Civil Servants, in some paperwork. To the world at large, he was Rear Admiral Sir Miles Messervy, retired from the Royal Navy and now employed in an 'advisory capacity' at the Ministry of Defense. But to the people in the building, and to the men and women spread across the world who secretly answered to him, he was 'M', the all but invincible head of the British Secret Service, the great player who carefully and wisely navigated his pawns across the chessboard of international espionage.

M was contemplating a nice Intelligence report he'd received from a field officer in Turkey when his intercom buzzed. He picked it up.

"There is a gentleman to see you sir", came the sweet voice of his newly appointed secretary, Miss Moneypenny.

"A gentleman?" M asked, surprised. He did not have any appointments scheduled for today. "Who is he?"

"He says you're expecting him sir. He says his name is Bond, sir. James Bond".

_Bond_, the name suddenly struck a bell in M's mind, which raced back to the dossier he had last reviewed barely a week ago. "Send him in, in five minutes", he replied.

M then lay back in his chair. So, Waters had been right. Bond had decided to join them after all. Which was good; it would have been an awful waste of talent otherwise. M believed that the key to the efficiency of the Service as an effective tool in subversive warfare lay in the professionalism of its officers. And Bond, from the reports he'd read, was a thorough professional in almost every regard.

M needed professionals. He needed men like Bond. Most of all, he needed another candidate for the Double O Section. The loss of his best agent, 002, in Japan nineteen months ago still rankled and M realized that he desperately needed new blood in that particular department. After reviewing the details of the two assignments Bond had undertaken during the war, and the psychiatric evaluation that followed, M was convinced that Bond, given time, could grow into the role. Yes, he _would _eventually grow into the role, M thought with certainty.

And so, he switched on the intercom and asked Moneypenny to send Bond in.

He had a new pawn now, he reflected. A talented one. Now all that remained was to groom him into a knight…


End file.
